


Edge

by scriibble



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriibble/pseuds/scriibble
Summary: Jane Rizzoli is on edge.





	Edge

**Author's Note:**

> I recently started watching Rizzoli and Isles (how tf did I not until now?) and I'm in love with the dynamic between Maura and Jane and so this just happened.   
> I would love feedback if anyone had any!
> 
> Also this is posted on FanFiction too under the same name.

Edge

You are more on edge than you can ever remember being; you are usually assuredly self-confident and in control, not this emotional wreck who jumps every time you accidentally brush against the Chief Medical Examiner. It's embarrassing really; a friendly hand on your elbow shouldn't cause your lungs to swell into conflict; a dimple smile shouldn't reduce you to stuttering breaths and clammy hands. Your only reprieve is that you think (you hope) your years of working as a detective have given you a poker face,

It's hard though. She's always been very tactile with you- she hadn't had any close friends previous to you and so the result is blurred boundaries and rapidly retreating lines where you desperately need there to be very firm limits. You really don't trust yourself.

Still, you carry on as if nothing is eating your insides, as if you don't wake up every morning after nights spent dreaming of her (annoyingly) perfect face. Just because you're struggling not to drown in these excessive sentimentalities doesn't mean she has to know about them.

(She knows though, of course she does.)

She can't know. Just the thought of telling her makes your stomach clench uneasily and you seriously think that the time you shot yourself was more agreeable than this feeling. You think bitterly that you don't know why people rave about falling in love when it feels as gut wrenching as this.

and really it's hilariously ridiculous because you're not even gay, but also it's so not hilarious because you feel sick all the damn time.

You attempt to distance yourself but really, how can you? She is your whole life, intertwined in every aspect (except in the way you need) from your mother living with her to the frequent nights you spend awake twisting the sheets next to her softly sleeping form. Instead you attempt to pacify yourself with allowing yourself to daydream but you think that makes it worse. How can you face your best friend and act like normal when you spent the whole night wondering what noise she'd make if you surprised her with a kiss and how soft her inner thighs would be. What a mess.

It all comes to a climax the night you have to play a lesbian and go on many (too many) dates with woman at Merge. You spend the whole night uncomfortable, and not for the reasons Frost and Korsac imagine.

I mean, of course the idea of pretending to be going on dates with woman as your partner and ex-partner listen in is embarrassing in itself, but no. Something else has got you on edge that night and its both entirely expected and entirely unexpected that you feel like you might throw up.

She insisted on dressing in that outfit and you spend the whole night trying not to stare. Her breasts are spilling over the stop of a dangerously low corset and how can they be so perfect? You're sure she catches you but if she does she doesn't say anything. You leave the bar without a word to her, needing to head home and get some space.

(and maybe a cold shower.)

She ruins your plans, obviously. You hear the quiet knock after midnight and you have no doubt at who it could be (who else would be on your doorstep this time of night?) You answer it and you're pleased (disappointed) to see she's changed out of that dress into her version of casual; soft jeans and a button up shirt. You swallow and try not to notice the way the jeans hug her figure or how your height combined with her top button undone gives you the perfect view of lace.

You ask why she's there and her eyes flash momentarily with hurt at your tone before clearing.

"You've been acting strangely all night" she says by way of explanation, a slight shrug of her shoulders as she closes the front door and pushes ahead of you in the apartment. "I wanted to make sure you're okay"

"I'm fine." you insist with a gravelly voice and you are vaguely aware at how weird it is for her not to be going all google mouth at you. You heatedly discuss how you're definitelyfine before you're forcing her out the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Maur." You say with a clipped, formal tone that leaves no space for discussion but to soften your words you allow yourself to lean down to kiss her cheek goodbye.

But your lips are missing the mark on her cheek and sliding against the corner of her mouth and -oh God - even your pathetically hopeful self can't mistake the hitch in her breath or the erratic pulse jumping in her neck. You start to think maybe - maybe -

And suddenly it doesn't matter because she's launched herself at you with a fever you've never witnessed before and her lips and tongue and teeth are pulling at your lips frantically. Her hands are everywhere at once, smoothing your wild mane of hair and caressing your jaw and ghosting over your waist, and - fuck - her legs are suddenly wrapped around your waist as you press her against the breakfast bar. Everything is her.

Your kisses slow, still bring hot but calmer and softer. You pull away to see her face, still only inches away from you, and you are blown away. Her eyes are still closed and she's breathing heavily in your arms. Her cheeks are flushed and her perfect hair is (for once) not perfectly in place; you take pleasure in thinking you did that to her.

(You wonder what else you could do to her…)

"Maura," you murmur, and lean forwards (with no will of your own) to pull her bottom lip between yours one last time, letting go with a soft pop.

This time her eyes flutter open and she smiles, looking for some reason you cant ascertain, smug. "Took you long enough." she states, "There have been studies which statistics suggest that friends who cross the line between platonic and romantic-" and you grip her face between your hands once again and pull her up in another kiss, effectively stopping her flow of words that inevitably would be quoting google. You kiss her hard.

And this time you don't stop for a long time.

Fin.


End file.
